


my only summer

by whisperdlullaby



Category: One Direction
Genre: Bikers, Drug and Alcohol Use, M/M, various illegal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis finds freedom on the open road, and harry is a biker.</p><p>inspired by lana del rey’s video <i>ride</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my only summer

**Author's Note:**

> let us all pretend this is some distant future and/or alternate universe where mostly everyone is a little gay or at least very okay with it. warnings include drug and alcohol abuse, all sorts of illegal activity, and a brief mention of past sexual abuse. i feel like i should also issue a warning of eleanor being a side character (though in no way romantically connected to louis), and offer an apology to niall who is left out of this fic (i just couldn’t picture him as a biker, i’m sorry). there's technically not a sad ending, but that's all i'm going to say about that.
> 
> also, you should be able to understand this without seeing [the video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Py_-3di1yx0), but seeing as lana can tell her story more beautifully than i could ever hope for, i suggest you watch it if you haven’t already. 
> 
> lots and lots of love to [kara](http://decisionsandrevisionsfic.tumblr.com) for not only proofing, but giving me a stamp of approval when i was nervous over this fic. you can find my tumblr [here](http://hazzaetlou.tumblr.com/post/86037866541/my-only-summer-louis-tomlinson-harry-styles). banner taken from [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/jeffclow/3503587957).

 

it’s nearing midnight, and the gas station is deserted. louis smokes a cigarette near the pump, listening to the buzz of the highway, eyes tracing the artificial light that stretches out from inside the rest stop and slates against the cracking pavement.

perrie was supposed to be here an hour ago, and he’s spent the past five cigarettes considering going back to the highway, and getting into the first car that stops. boston, san diego, houston, fucking mexico. louis will go anywhere. but.

but, no. he’s here now, and soon perrie will be, zayn too, and he’ll be back on the open road, hair whipped with desert air while a symphony of motors roar beneath them, welcoming him like an old friend. it’s been nearly six months, but he’s still picking the grains of sand out from every pore. it’s part of him now.

he hears them before he sees them, can feel it in his skin like a million tiny firecrackers exploding between every neuron. not many bikes make their way through minnesota in the winter, but the sound was always unmistakable, enough to wake him from a deep slumber, skin stung with a deep yearning for the familiar.

perrie jumps off the back of zayn’s bike, running for louis and throwing her arms around his neck. she smells like smoke, freedom, and the closest thing louis’ ever had to a home. when louis called, he didn’t have to explain, didn’t even have to apologize. she listened to all the words he didn’t say, and said, “get down to the new mexico border. we’ll pick you up.” it took louis four days to hitch all the way down, only his ripped duffel on his back and one fifty in cash. he’s down to twenty now (and thirty six cents).

louis kisses zayn hello. he’s met with a chuckle and a shake of the head and a muttered, “fucking minnesota” like it’s all some elaborate joke. which it is, kind of, only it’s more sad than anything.

he ruffles liam’s hair, and liam says, “welcome home.”

louis still doesn’t know what home is, not sure that he believes in it, but when he gets on the back of liam’s bike, he’s reminded of what it used to feel like.

out on the highway, him and perrie giggle against the wind, arms outstretched over the heads, flying like birds, the darkness open and unending around them. it’s enough to make louis forget, for a moment. almost.

louis can see the smoke billowing into the air from miles away, and it serves as a warning, loud, but in a language he can’t understand. he’s the most prepared that he’ll ever be, yet he’s not prepared at all. he’s had four days of sleepless nights to trace him in his mind, he’s had ninety six hours to figure out all the ways to say i’m sorry (a little), to say you were right (i think), to say i was scared (maybe), i am scared (a lot), yet he has nothing. not a sentence in his mind, not even a verb.

the heat from the fire envelops louis as soon as they pull onto the dirt road from the highway. he can hear music and gunshots and laughter, and louis wonders, if he were to close his eyes and listen hard enough, would he be able to pick his laughter out from all of the rest?

when louis steps off the bike, the sand beneath his feet feels of second chances, of new beginnings. louis doesn’t have the patience to pretend the search isn’t instant, and when he sees him, across the fire with a joint between his lips, louis can feel it in his heart and head and knees, constricting then expanding.

louis waits, frozen in his desire and fear (but certainly not love). even with the distance separating them, it’s as if his skin burns with the same awareness as louis’, because he turns to look at him at once, green eyes catching.

across the flicker of the flames, harry smiles.

  

* * *

 

the first time louis met harry they were in a shit bar in just as shit town, arkansas.

louis had noticed him while he performed. saw the smile, the dimples, and the green eyes through the curling cigarette smoke. louis didn’t smile back, but he had thought about it, which could have meant something all on its own.

afterwards, at their table, louis was greeted with an ass grab from alberto, and harry said, “you have a beautiful voice.”

“thank you.” louis reached into his tip jar made from an old paint can, pulling out crumpled dollar bills. “i wish my tips agreed.”

“one day you’ll be famous,” harry said like a promise, like a teller of fates. the universe’s very own messenger, delivered to tell louis who he is, who he was, and who he will be. if louis didn’t believe him, it was only because he was a cynic.

louis smirked, and harry said, “i’m harry.”

“louis.”

harry smiled, smiled in a way like it was only ever made for louis, and for one very brief moment, louis believed it could’ve been. the awareness that they were surrounded by a table full of people returned, and the only thing he could do was smile back, skin prickling with something unfamiliar.

louis probably knew it then, he just wished he didn’t.

 

 

harry stared (a lot). he would laugh and talk and joke and smile, but he would never touch.

louis would laugh and talk and joke and smile, but he would never ask (at least not right away). instead he got high and danced till three in the morning with perrie and eleanor in their small motel room in texas, while harry played poker (badly), and watched louis over his cards.

over a line, perrie asked if he fucked the new guy yet, and when louis said no, she said, “get on that before i do.”

“any idea where he came from?” eleanor asked, voicing what had been lingering in louis’ mind for the past week.

“liam said they went to school together,” perrie said. “quite the notorious dealer, i hear.”

“him?” louis remarked, doubtful. “he’s just a kid.”

perrie shrugged, leaning in for another line. “aren’t we all?”

 

 

“so, when are you going to fuck me?”

harry looked up from where he was sitting on a picnic table, a packaged sandwich in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. “i thought you were alberto’s boy.”

“why would you think that?”

“because i saw you two,” harry responded, easy and without a blink. louis knew harry was new, but he didn’t think _that_ new.

“you’ve probably seen me with zayn too, and others.” he watched as harry raised the cigarette to his mouth, wordless and unaffected. exhaling, he passed it to louis. “i’m not anyone’s boy,” louis clarified. “i fuck who i want to fuck. don’t you?”

harry looked at him long and hard, lips twisted in what could’ve been a smirk, like he was recalling a joke that louis wasn’t in on, and louis had to look away before he got lost. he took a drag of the cigarette, filter wet, and harry said, “sure, can’t say i’m against the good, old fashioned relationship though.”

“well, you certainly won’t be finding one of those here.”

“didn’t say i wanted to.”

they were still in texas, though further south, but the breeze carrying the remnants of the ocean did little but make the air dense and humid, soaking into his skin and clinging. it made the smoke feel heavier in his chest, weighing him down, tugging and pulling, drowning. it had absolutely nothing to do with harry, how he managed to look flawless in all black except for a red bandana wrapped intricately around his head like art.

louis took the last drag of the cigarette while harry said, “i’ll fuck you.” he looked at louis. “so long as i’m not going to get skinned alive by alberto.”

“castrated, maybe,” louis joked.

harry stared at him like he was looking for truth in his words. “you’re beautiful, but i’m not certain you’re worth my nuts just yet.”

louis shrugged coolly, hopping off the table (louis was called beautiful all the time, it _wasn’t_ a big deal).  “guess there’s only one way to see,” he said over his shoulder, moving towards the cluster of men and bikes, the smell of weed lingering.

(and if his hips happened to sway a little more than usual, well, it was merely by chance.)

 

 

at the bar next the motel, harry pressed close, breath hot and sweet and smelling of whiskey. louis shivered while harry slid his room key into his back pocket.

harry said, “i’ve decided you’re worth it.”

 

 

he expected to get straight to the fucking, but upon arriving, harry patted down a spot next to him on the mattress and pulled out a joint, lighting it with a match. his shirt was off, the smooth, muscular expanses of his skin littered with black ink (louis would later come to know every curve of every design - well enough that his tongue could trace and his fingers could feel, even with eyes closed).

harry’s body gave art a new meaning, made venus de milo seem no more than clay, the mona lisa seem like child’s work.

they sat with their backs against the plaster wall, white paint stained and marked with secrets they’d never know, of people they’d never meet. when they passed the joint, their fingers brushed, the touch a steady hum. louis kissed him first, the sweet smoke an invitation passed between their lips. harry’s kiss was rougher than he would’ve expected for someone with such a pretty face. harry discarded the joint in the ashtray without looking, lips and tongues and teeth not breaking, large hands up louis’ shirt.

louis had been with a lot of people (some young, some old, some female), but with harry, it already felt different in ways that louis didn’t want to think about. he was rough in a way that crept under louis’ skin and burned, gentle in a way that made it last.

harry fucked him hard, bit and bruised louis’ skin with his paper-thin wrists trapped between his fingers. the mattress was hard and the frame squeaked, the blanket itching and causing a rash to flare over louis’ skin. underneath the cloud of weed there was a distinct smell of must and leftover grease, but louis didn’t care. he was hardly a romantic.

harry came with a gasp, a quiet finish for such loud actions. his recovery was brief as he slid down louis’ body to hook his thighs over his shoulders, fucking into him with his tongue, hands on louis’ balls. when louis came, he saw stars and did a lot more than gasp.

later, when he fell asleep with his head on harry’s chest, he pretended the way he counted his heartbeats was merely from the weed.

 

 

louis had been on the road for four years. he’d left home with no more than a dream to escape, and a vague sense of wanting to be a poet (it took him three more months to realize that he was shit).

he found himself in boston, serving at a dodgy bar on the outskirts of the city, the only place that would hire him underage and without a visa. he hadn’t even wanted to be a singer, but the owner’s son had heard him singing while closing up one night, starting his career as a waiter slash singer every friday and saturday night.

seven months into living there (no less miserable than he was in england), zayn and the gang walked through the door, altering his life, wholly and permanent. he spent two days laughing and dancing with them, and the knowledge that he had finally found his people was undeniable. he spent his entire eighteen years looking for a taste of real life, and here it was, in the form of tattooed muscles, harleys and cocaine. they had saved him from himself, offered him the freedom he never realized that he had wanted, experiences that he never thought he’d have.

for the next three years, those people became his home, the road his foundation. they spent their days wandering mindlessly through the country, searching for new experiences, east to west, north to south, never a fixed destination, never a goal. there was nothing to hold them down, nothing to paint their future but themselves. they were the artists, the world their endless canvas.

sometimes, louis sang at whatever bar would take him. he wasn’t very popular, had no name for himself, but it was a way for him to get a little bit of money into his pocket, and he marvelled in the attention and affection of others. he met people this way, men and new friends. every so often disappeared to spend days with them, creating new memories, seeking new comfort. but in the end, he always returned to his people, zayn always faithful to pick him up in the parking lot of truck stops or motels.

in arizona, louis met simon, clean shaven and a self-proclaimed record producer, though louis could smell his dirty money from the stage. he bought louis a whiskey sour, and offered louis no promises, only a white smile that seemed to twinkle under the bar lights.

louis spent three days with him, swimming in the motel pool and drinking watered down scotch. he left at midnight with no note, stolen bills and a gold chain in his back pocket, hitching to the border where perrie said they would be.

by 8 am louis was sitting on the curb at a gas station in el centro, wearing three day old clothes and eating dried cinnamon rolls out of a package. he had been there for three hours, and he was never fully certain whether this would be the time zayn didn’t show up.

he smiled at the familiar roar of a motor in the distance, the deep hum that rattled louis’ bones. though it wasn’t zayn that the bike belonged to, but harry.

louis stood up as harry said, “i thought you left.”

“i always come back.”

harry nodded, eyes squinted against the early sun. louis ducked to climb onto the back of his bike, feeling raw underneath his scrutiny. he wrapped his arms around harry’s narrow waist, head rested against his warm back, feeling the vibrations of his heartbeat.

without another word, harry revved the engine, and took off down the highway.

 

 

some time later, in san francisco, louis took a walk with harry over the golden gate bridge. their fucking had become a regular occurance (more regular than louis would care to admit), and with that, louis had come to know the lines of his body and the ripples of his voice better than most.

harry was a quiet one, seldom offering words unless they held a certain weight and meaning (or none at all). it left louis feeling open in a way he wasn’t used to, uncertain how to shape himself around something so elusive. louis longed to crack him open, to have whatever was on the inside come spilling out for him to pick apart and understand. sometimes harry looked at him with this heaviness, or touched him in a way that started at the base of louis’ spine and exploded into fireworks in his head that both dazzled and dizzied him.

up on the bridge, thousands upon thousands of feet above shimmering blue water, louis couldn’t help but think of all the people who had jumped. how easy it would be, to leave the world behind in such colour, the mountains and sun and air so beautiful and vibrant around you. louis thought that if he were to kill himself, it would be here.

louis rested his chin against the railing (it was red, not gold), and stared out at the horizon beyond, harry radiating warmth next to him (harry didn’t like to touch him outside of the four walls of a motel room). harry had an unusual smell, oil and smoke with a dash of something sweet, like candy or apples.

louis asked, “have you ever killed anyone?”

“what?” harry frowned. “no.”

“it’ll come.” louis was only partly joking.

there was a pause, giving the cool ocean air space to whip around them and through their hair. harry’s curls danced across his neck. “have you?”

louis smiled. “i’m not a gangsta, just one of the bitches. it’s not in my job description. but i’ve seen it.”

“i guess i’m not your regular gangsta.” harry shrugged, smiling small.

louis pushed himself off the railing, angling his body to look at harry. taking in his youthful features, the greengreengreen of his sparkling eyes, louis said, “i figured. you look so young - and innocent. how did a nice boy like you get into this business, anyway?”

“i could ask the same about you.”

“i’m not in the business,” louis replied in resolution. “i just happen to enjoy its company.”

harry laughed, nodding in a way of surrender. “i may not have killed anyone, but i’ve been dealing since i was twelve. knew how to shoot a gun even before that. grew up in a rough area,” he said. “i guess you could say my innocent appearance and charm is what kept me in the business for so long. no one suspects the skinny white kid with dimples to be smuggling ten kilos of powder.”

“makes sense,” louis deemed.

“what about you? what’s your story?”

“i don’t have a story.”

“you must if you’re all the way over here with that accent,” harry said pointedly.

“fine.” louis sighed. “i’m from shit town in rural england. i moved here when i was seventeen. technically, i’m what you’d call an illegal alien.”

“why’d you come?”

“i fucking hated england. america promised so much more.”

“where are your parents?”

louis stared at him, and harry stared right back, unflinching. not only was louis not used to so many words from harry all at once, but he certainly wasn’t used to such direct questions - from anyone. out there, your past mattered as little as your future. louis said, “hey, i didn’t pull the parent card on you.”

“mom’s dead, dad’s in jail for killing her. haven’t seen my sister in years. she’s either married with kids and working in an office, or she’s hooking for drugs. hard to say,” he supplied easily.

louis searched for any signs of exaggeration, a twitch in his expression, a lift of his eyebrow, but harry remained entirely straight faced. louis sighed in vanquish. “dad left when i was a baby, my mum’s an abusive drunk with an opening door of even more abusive boyfriends. i don’t know what my sisters are doing either.” he offered a small smile though he hardly felt amused. remembering his past did that, made his heart heavy and his blood curl. “i guess that makes us shit brothers.”

“our parents taught us best.”

“seems so,” he agreed. “i’ll be damned if i ever have kids. fuck them up as much as our parents did us.”

“i wouldn’t mind them.”

louis stared at him, nonplussed, and when harry showed no sign that he was joking, louis laughed at loud. “you? what, to help smuggle drugs?”

lines knit across harry’s forehead, and he looked out across the water, away from louis’ amusement, appearing genuinely offended. “i’m more than just a drug dealer,” he muttered.

“oh-kay,” louis said, enunciating slowly, unconvinced.

they stood in silence, harry still staring off thoughtful and perturbed. louis felt bad, though not entirely sure why, as it was an emotion he stopped feeling a long time before. plus, it was true, people like them were never meant to be the type to raise children, and harry must’ve known as much. what would they do? strap them to the back of their motorcycles?

exhaling, louis’ fingers reached for harry’s side and slid down to his wrist. when they finally reached harry’s, slipping between the spaces, harry didn’t pull away. instead, louis swore he felt a squeeze.

 

 

louis usually stayed out of their business as much as he could, but in chicago, harry asked him to come along, and no was not something he had yet learned how to tell him.

perrie and eleanor joined, and when they rode up a long driveway with surrounding lush trees, a grand mansion looming ahead, louis felt as if he had stepped into a dream. his life had been a series of decaying apartments and motel rooms, dodgy schools and bars, convenience stores and truck stops. he had known of places like this existing, but he had never seen one in person, not like this one, in all its richness and grandiose.

he expected the inhabitants to be groomed and good-looking in minx jackets and expensive suits, but they looked strikingly similar to everyone else he had ever met on the road (except, maybe, in more expensive denim).

perrie, eleanor and him were allowed to lounge by the pool, served martinis by the housekeeper, while the rest of them did their business inside over expensive cigars. he could hear their deep voices carried out through the open window, long white curtains blowing in the summer breeze. harry’s voice was the most distinct, falling over him like molasses. eleanor laughed over something perrie said, her feet dipped into the pool, creating endless ripples in the water. louis had spent his life running, but he wondered, if he were given this life, would he still?

they stayed until the sun had long gone down, laughing and smoking and drinking in the parlour. the three of them attempted to play cards with the rest until they grew bored of the mundanity of it all (“yeesh,” perrie said, “this will give me wrinkles!”). harry watched him as he left the table, gaze as heavy as a touch.

they decided on hide and seek, the unending halls and spacious rooms too inviting to turn down. louis ducked into one of the rooms, doors down from the parlour, looking over the couches and curtains and bookcases for the best place to seek cover. before he could, someone came in from behind, could tell if only for the scent of strong cologne. “found my office, i see?”

louis turned towards the intruder, a large but put-together man. he, unlike his other counterparts, was dressed in a pressed button-down and jeans, head full of wispy, peppered hair. there was no tattoos that louis could see, but his frame was large, taller than even harry.

louis realized then that maybe he should be apologizing, that maybe he shouldn’t be running around this stranger’s (who he assumed to be important in ways louis never would be) home as if he had a right. “i’m sorry, we were just - ”

“what’s your name?” the man took a step towards louis. there was a trace of a smile on his cracked lips, a look in his eyes that louis had seen enough to recognize at once.

“louis.”

“you’re beautiful, louis,” he said, stepping into his space, the back of louis’ thighs bumping into the couch, hands against the rich material.

louis forced his chin up, forced a smile, and said, “thank you. you have a very lovely home.”

“thank you.” the predatory gleam in his eye was irrefutable, the lick of his lips, the intention of marking his territory, and louis could hardly deny it to him. he understood that’s what he was to these people (to most people) - him, perrie and eleanor. if they weren’t supplying the drugs, then they were supplying the sex, and louis was nowhere near the position to say no.

louis was hardly new to it, could extend thank-yous far back as his mum’s boyfriends, for providing the training he needed as a kid. he knew how to appear as if he liked it while shutting himself off, disappearing into auto-pilot. how to breathe, how to move, how to suck.

a hand landed on louis’ waist, the other on his ass, close enough that louis nearly tasted the rum on his tongue already. louis gave one look through long eyelashes before his eyes slipped shut for good, the man’s mouth rough and wet against his.

the thing is, if he were an admirer in the club, louis might have approached him, might have even gone away with him. but there, it just felt wrong. in the club, it was his choice. there, he had none. there, harry was just down the hallway, chain smoking cigarettes and dealing a royal flush. somewhere in those hallways, eleanor raced around trying to find where he was supposed to be hidden.

louis dug his nails into the couch as the man fumbled at his own zipper. the door was still wide open, but that hardly mattered when louis was only meant to be the whore.

“why don’t you get down on your knees, and put that pretty mouth of yours to - ”

“louis.”

the man stopped instantly, hands freezing from where he exposed himself, and louis felt breath return to his lungs, thoughts return to his brain in a trickle. he looked to where harry was standing in the doorway, and swelled in relief, only to realize harry’s assumptions fell to louis being every bit involved. he had the right to, after all.

“we’re leaving,” he said, expression and voice baring no emotion.

“hey buddy, can’t you see we’re right in the middle of something?”

“we’re leaving,” harry repeated, enunciating every syllable with a tightened jaw.

“you can get your fucking dick sucked after. there’s enough of him to go around.”

something ferocious flashed in harry’s eye, hand dropping to his side to land on his gun, tucked inside the waistband of his jeans. for the first time since meeting him, louis understood how he made it as a highly regarded dealer.

harry might’ve said something else, but if he did, louis didn’t hear it as he scrambled out from in between the man and the couch, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. shame pulled his eyes from harry’s as he ducked past him, feet carrying him towards the front door, heart beating fervently inside his ribcage. he passed the parlour on the way, familiar laughter spilling out.

the air felt cool, soothing against his stinging skin as he dashed towards the bikes with the intention of driving off with one. he was in the middle of dashing between them, checking for any leftover keys when he was brought aware of harry’s feet pattering against the pavement. he nearly cried out in defeat. there was no use anyway, no one was stupid enough to leave their keys outside and louis didn’t have the time nor the concentration to hotwire one.

harry stopped and stood, hands on his hips. in the dim light trickling out from the house, louis was glad to see no blood on his shoes.

louis leaned against a bike for support, and remained quiet, unsure of what words to use. he had no reason to explain, nothing to apologize for, but for some strange reason, he felt like he should, like harry was expecting one even though louis knew full well that he wasn’t.

everyone was still inside, the large front doors shutting them out, and louis realized then that there had been no plans to leave, and the thought remained heavy in his gut.

“let’s go,” harry eventually said, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

louis followed wordlessly, waiting to slide on after harry, slipping tentative arms around his waist, like harry might actually have resisted. he’d never been more thankful for inability to talk while speeding down the highway. he felt at odd with himself, like a traitor in his own skin. he had managed to separate so far from himself that he still hadn’t entirely returned again, and the sense of familiarity made him feel sick.

the motel was nothing in comparison to the mansion they had just fled from, but as soon as harry turned off the engine, louis felt comfort, safety. louis hopped off the bike with the full intention of running into his shared room with perrie and eleanor, to maybe get high and hide underneath the blankets, to create shelter from the shame and memories that hovered close above, ready to descend and suffocate.

but then, harry reached out and grabbed onto his wrist, tugging him back. the dread was instant, and he found himself flinching as if in the couple months he’d known harry he had ever done anything to warrant such a reaction. when louis forced himself to look back at him, it wasn’t anger or disgust that he saw, but a lingering sort of sadness.

before louis could place it, locate the proper file inside his head, harry tugged him again, pulling him into his chest. at first louis remained frozen, too shocked to register, then eventually, he sunk, nose pressed against harry’s strong chest. there was a siren in the distance, a baby crying from above, but in that fleeting moment, louis swore they were the only two that ever mattered.

and for the first time in years, louis let himself cry.

 

 

when harry insisted that they all drive as far south as georgia without stopping, everyone listened without so much as a question.

it wasn’t until the morning after they arrived that louis caught the header of the newspaper harry was reading in the diner. **FORMER HEAD OF STATE ARRESTED FOR INVOLVEMENT IN DRUG RING.** louis grabbed it from his hands with little delicacy, nearly ripping it in half in his fiery. his eyes landed on the picture, a familiar grey-haired man ducking as men in uniform circled him, hands cuffed behind his back. he read arrested in his _chicago home_ , _cocaine_ , and _anonymous tip_.

he stared at harry, mouth hanging open and incredulous, and harry stared out the window.

“harry,” he said once he managed to locate his voice, “are you fucking insane? you could get yourself killed. you could get _us_ killed.”

harry said nothing, instead taking the paper back as if louis was merely a nuisance who stole it to read the morning comics. louis continued to stare after him, too shocked to breathe, and harry couldn’t even bat an eyelash. eventually, he lifted his gaze to meet louis’, and shrugged quite simply. he took a sip of his coffee, and said, “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“my mum always said i had a chameleon soul,” louis said. “no fixed personality, no moral compass.”

“your mum was also a drunk,” harry responded without a beat, and well, that was the truth, at least.

they were off the coast of florida, the night air warmer than even the hottest days in england. the sand crunched underneath their feet, waves of warm ocean water crashing against their ankles. in the distance, the whitecaps reflected the moon. louis often thought that if he were to set an anchor down anywhere, it would be here.

“but she was right, you know, in a way.”

harry looked at him oddly, and said, “not much i can say about a moral compass, but you have a personality. people with no personalities aren’t nearly as complex as you.”

louis wasn’t sure of a compliment, but he blushed anyway. “i have many different versions,” he countered. “i’m never the same person. i adapt to others. that’s why i can’t be alone, because i don’t know who i am if there’s no one to mould myself around.” louis gazed down the shoreline, the footprints of people before them washed away, just like their’s behind. there was no proof that they had been here except for louis’ admissions that hung loosely in the air above them, uncaught and unchained.

“i don’t believe that,” harry said, unwavering in his certainty. louis yearned for the same conviction in himself. “you can’t tell me there isn’t a person underneath all those acts. you can’t touch an illusion. illusions don’t cry because there’s nothing to cry about.”

louis bit his tongue, blood tasting sweet. he had cried, showed harry his weakness in confidence. they had an agreement to never speak of it, to never acknowledge it. it may have been an unspoken one, but it was an agreement nonetheless.

as if realizing his mistake, harry reached out at once, hand against his waist, and louis brushed him away by saying, “if there is someone underneath, then he’s fucking crazy.”  

harry had stopped, the force between them pulling louis in like the tide. he breathed out steadily, itching for a cigarette, for a distraction from harry’s heavy gaze. louis didn’t know what he was expecting when he had first spoken, uncovering for harry to see, but he supposed that maybe this was it all along.

harry rested a hand against louis’ neck, the other brushing away a loose strand of hair, and the blatant gentleness of it all caused louis’ chest to seize and his hand to freeze from where he was reaching for his cigarette pack.

harry said, “it’s only because you’ve got a war in your mind.”

he said, “it’s full of ghosts that are fighting to be you. only you’re too strong to let them beat you. too stubborn to give up and admit that you don’t have to fight to win.”

louis searched harry’s eyes for a sign that he was merely messing with his mind, looking to burrow into his skin and sting, but they were clear of motive, the lines of his face too soft to touch. louis pulled himself away at once, burnt by his tenderness. he laughed harshly. “those are pretty words.”

“it’s true,” he persisted. “i refuse to let you tell me that you’re no more than a figment of my imagination. you’re witty and intelligent and strong and beautiful.”

“i’m observant. i shaped myself into what i knew you’d like.” but even as he said it, the words didn’t feel as true as he once thought them to be. “i’m different with zayn and paul and cal and perrie and eleanor. i’m different with the men i meet at bars,” he said with a raised chin, suddenly unsure as to who he was trying to convince. with zayn he was quiet and pensive, with paul he was hard and piercing, with liam he was giggly and innocent, with perrie and eleanor he was just another one of the girls, and in between them all he was a blank slate, clay ready to be shaped.

“no,” harry said with an air of finality, and louis had to look away again. “no, that might be true for others, but if it were for me you wouldn’t be admitting this right now.”

louis shook his head, mouth pressed shut in fear of unwanted words bubbling up and escaping.

“i’m right, aren’t i?” harry pressed. “you haven’t told anyone else this before, have you?”

louis let out breath all at once, eyes prickling, and it wasn’t just words threatening to spill out, but tears and swelling fear. “no,” he said, feeling all too wrung-out, torn open. “no.”

harry watched him, the crack he made in louis revealing all the nooks and crevices and dark places that louis himself could not see (did not want to see). he nodded, simple, as if all of it had been a casual run-in, a catch up in their day.

for one split second louis was filled with something he couldn’t recognize, something that burned and overwhelmed, and if it was love or hate, he didn’t know. it was gone as quick as it came, and when harry turned to continue down the beach, all louis could do was follow, breeze cold against the space that had been exposed, the place harry had taken with him.

 

 

“do you love him?”

louis snapped his head to look at perrie, lit cigarette nearly falling from between his lips. eleanor stood from where she hung her head off the side of the railing, interest piqued, and both of them turned to stare at him with bambi eyes. behind them, louis could hear the faint buzz of the television in their room behind them, a spanish soap opera.

“who?” louis asked with feigned ignorance.

the roll of their eyes was continuous. “harry.” she leaned her shoulder towards louis, like she might knock it, but then decided against it the last minute, taking a drag of her cigarette instead.

“don’t be stupid.”

she looked across the motel’s parking lot, lost in her own thought, as if she hadn’t heard louis at all. “sometimes,” she said, “sometimes i think i could be in love with zayn.”

louis snorted, and eleanor looked between them.

“why is that so funny?” perrie asked with narrowed eyes.

“because, we don’t fall in love. you already know that.” and she did, know that. she knew louis was not in love with harry, just like she was not in love with zayn. that wasn’t something that happened out there, not something they knew how to do. they loved, of course. louis loved many different people in many different ways - perrie, eleanor, zayn, paul, liam, faces and people he met along the way (and yes, harry), but the moment in love passed through your heart was the minute it all came crumbling. all of the energy that louis spent breaking constraints would not be wasted. being in love meant exclusivity, it meant bouquets of flowers, and reservations at restaurants. it meant bills and driving your kids to soccer and fighting over chores. louis wanted none of that, none of them did, which is exactly why the notion was insane in itself. it wasn't that louis didn’t believe in falling in love or romance or anything between, because he did, all too much, and it was that belief that kept him from it. being in love was anything but freedom.

perrie fell quiet, ash from her cigarette falling onto the ground, charring black onto the chipping grey paint. down below they watched as a man and a women walked across the lot to their car, knocking arms and laughing, and louis smoked until he hit the filter.

(and if louis fucked zayn that night, it was only to set the balance right.)

 

 

perrie’s question kept louis out of harry’s bed and off the back of his bike for a week. the fact that harry seemed to notice his absence as much as louis felt it drove him to persist amidst harry’s constant watchful gaze. harry never said anything, but the emotions on his face read clear: curiosity, jealousy, and guilt (that was fine by louis - let harry feel some discomfort while the crack he made still had yet to heal).

then, one morning he found himself buying two of harry’s favourite energy drinks and getting onto the back of his bike, and by the time he was consciously aware, it was already too late. harry took the drink, repaying louis with a smile and a lack of acknowledgement over his recent avoidance.

that night, harry circled a hand around louis’ wrist, eyes spilling with need and desire, washing away any resistance that may have been lingering in louis.

“i missed your skin,” harry said while he fucked him into the mattress, and louis nodded, because he had missed him touching it. louis never knew what it was like to miss someone who was right in front of you.

when louis came he saw red, hipbones discolored by harry’s fingertips. when harry kissed him it felt too raw, and when he asked him if he was happy, louis didn’t understand what he meant.

“yes,” louis said, skin still sticky with his cum and harry’s sweat, “that was great.”

“no, i mean,” harry hand raked through louis’ hair, chest rising steadily, “are you happy? in general?”

louis frowned, confused. eventually, he said, “yes, the road, you guys, they’re my only real happiness.”

“don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to have a home?”

“i have a home,” louis said, defensive. when harry gave him a look, he said, “my home is on the road, wherever i lay my head. i had a ‘real home’ once, and i hated it.” harry sighed, said nothing as he stared at the flickering light above the bed. louis looked over his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his swollen lips, tried to imagine that the air passing between his lips was something tangible, something he could draw upon. “are you happy?” he finally asked.

“sometimes,” harry said without hesitance. he didn’t look at louis as he said, “you make me happy.”

louis’ heart skipped out of his chest and into his ears, and he tried to laugh it off but it came out all wrong. “really? because you always look so serious.” louis jabbed a finger into his cheek in hopes that if he made light of it, laughed enough, that harry would join along and say he was only kidding.

harry kept an incredibly straight-face, further cementing louis’ words. when he turned, there was something in his eyes that cut louis’ breath in his throat. then he said, “i love you.”

louis’ withdrawal was immediate, recoiling as if harry’s words were arrows, shooting into his gut. “you ruined it,” is what he said and sat up at once, feet finding the floor, his back to harry.

harry’s voice remained soft. “ruined what? how?”

“you weren’t supposed to fall in love with me.”

“i didn’t plan on it.”

louis kept his back to harry, and the mattress behind kept still, but louis could still feel the ghost of harry’s touch against his skin. he regained consciousness and stood up, searching for his boxers. “something tells me you did,” he said, voice edged and sharp. “you knew what you were getting into. you knew i wasn’t like that. you just had to see for yourself, didn’t you?”

“what’s so wrong with having someone care for you?” harry asked, and from the corner of his eye, louis could see him sit up. “for wanting to be with you for more than just a couple of nights?”

“in case you haven’t realized, this whole life is about freedom. relationships aren’t meant to be free.” louis refused to look at him, eyes and mind and soul concentrated on the simple task of pulling up his boxers, and absolutely no attention was placed on harry’s fallen expression. once on his hips, he looked at the coloured space above harry’s head, a lasting attempt to erase a child’s crayoned doodles. “i’m meant to be the other one, not the one.”

“why are you so scared?”

“i’m not,” louis said, the lie feeling thick on his tongue. “love means being tied down, and if i wanted to be tied down i’d be married with a fucking white picket fence.” louis gained enough courage to flick his gaze down and hold with harry’s, tension tangible despite harry’s attempt at resistance. “i don’t know what you expected when you decided to come on the road, but you’re not going to find that here,” louis snapped, disdain forced into filling the cracks of his voice, “and certainly not with me.”

harry visibly flinched, knotting the blanket in his hand. he stayed quiet, and louis stared down at the top of his head, listening to a couple fighting on the other side of the plaster wall. when harry looked back at him, he said, “okay, i get it. forget i said anything.”

“you told me you loved me,” louis said nearly laughing in disbelief, “i can’t just forget it.”

“try.”

louis wrapped his arms over his bare chest, shaking his head, and harry said, “we’ll go back to how it was. fucking around, okay?”

“it’s not just fucking around if you have feelings.”

“i don’t,” he said, insistent. he smiled a little, but it came out all wrong, corners of his lips sharp like a dagger. “i’m officially over you.” louis bit his tongue until he tasted blood, and harry said, “just come back to bed.’

harry looked up at him so earnestly, and louis felt the minutes between them melt away. harry loved him, or at least thought he did, but the thought of leaving seemed nearly as dangerous, as volatile, as staying.

louis followed his feet to the bed, sinking into the mattress in what felt a lot like surrender. harry looked like he might reach out, but he decided against it as if touching him would confirm the fact that louis was already gone. he knew then, just as well as louis did, that it was all too late. the damage was done, irreparable.

harry switched off the light, rolling over onto his side, sheet off his hip. louis stayed awake, hours stretching on like minutes, listening to the whirr of the air-conditioning, watching as the headlights of passing cars flooded in through the blinds, designs reflecting off the ceiling.

harry had long been asleep when louis finally found the energy within himself to move a limb, and then another. before getting up entirely, he turned towards harry’s quiet, beating body, pressing his nose into the rich curls of his hair. with one deep breath, he whispered, very quietly, “i think i love you too.”

harry didn’t even stir, and louis didn’t look back as he walked out of the dark motel room with his fraying duffel over one shoulder.  

he lost track of how many vehicles passed him on the highway, his back to the motel where harry slept, face hidden in the shadows of harry’s jacket. eventually, a truck stopped, and when louis crawled in, he read _1:24_ on the dash. “where are you going?” he asked.

the man smiled behind his grey moustache. “minneapolis.”

“take me with you.”

the man watched him for a moment, curious, but louis purposely avoided his eyes, resting his head against the window and staring straight ahead at the open road. there was no cars in the distance, no bikes, and beyond the periphery of the trucks lights, it was only black. it wasn’t until the man pulled the gears and started down the road, the motel slowly disappearing into the darkness, that louis could feel himself breathe again.

“who’re you running away from?” the man asked over the hum of the radio. “parents? a lover?”

watching as the thick, yellow lines disappeared beneath the truck, an arrow pointing him away, louis said, “myself.”


End file.
